Part Twelve

Sacrifices Two: For the Sake of a Friend

Relieved to be out of orc rags and into his own again, Aragorn made his usual rounds, checking on his men, making sure no injury was more severe than it looked. He was pleased: they'd gotten off lightly with only here and there a few scratches or bruises incurred by the more exuberant fighters who disdained arrows as a weak route to killing your enemy.

"You should rest that arm, Eldacar," he gently admonished as one of that intrepid number bypassed him juggling two water flasks, a few of Ivriel's bannock cakes and two bowls of stew.

The silver-haired ranger gave him a swift smile as he adjusted one of the shoulder straps with a shrug. "Can't be helped, sir. Menelir whines if I leave him on duty with an empty stomach," Some of the younger element had decided to take up a post near one of the outlets to watch for pursuers.

Aragorn nodded reluctantly. "Well, go then. We wouldn't want a hungry soldier to waste away would we?"

"Ha! The day Menelir wastes away from hunger is the day I pick up archery as a favored hobby."

Chuckling, Aragorn ducked into the small side-chamber his group had made their own and found Halbarad sitting away from the others in a corner, his cloak wrapped around his knees.

His leader dropped next to him. "What troubles you, cousin?"

The older man's face was grimmer than usual. "Angrad's missing. I've checked twice. No one's seen him since the fighting started."

A cold claw gripped Aragorn's stomach and tugged. They hadn't been as lucky as he'd thought.

"Veil's gone too." Halbarad absently began to shred the untouched bannock he'd picked up. "If that man did something to Angrad…I'll throttle him! I swear it."

Aragorn found his tongue at last. "We don't know anything's happened. Angrad may have just gotten separated from the rest of us in the retreat. It was darker than Mordor out there, he could easily have gotten lost. Once it's safe enough, he'll return."

"If the orcs got him again I'll never forgive myself."

The creases deepened in Aragorn's forehead but the older ranger dusted crumbs off his fingers, rubbed his eyes roughly and stood up. "You want anything?"

Aragorn didn't and went restlessly to his bedroll. Propped against his pack was Haldir's saber. He stared at it for a long time, his fingers wandering over the battered sheath. He hadn't found time to polish it for some time. Fetching a rag and sword oil out of his pack, he considered sitting in some quiet corner in the vaulted hall despite the depressing denizens of that chamber, but as he reached the threshold, he heard Rancir's distinctive bark. Ivriel apparently was still getting a blistering dressing down. Feeling a little guilty but not enough to not listen, he settled his shoulder just behind the doorframe.

"—ever countermand my orders like that again and I'll strip you of rank and send you back to play soldier for the statues in the Imladris gardens. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." The whisper was barely audible as though Ivriel was hoping to temper her officer's stentorian roar with her own quiet alto.

Aragorn could almost picture Rancir standing rigidly to attention, summoning discipline to cover his agitation. "Concern for any thing or any one other than the matter at hand has no place on the battlefield, you know that. All it takes is one distracted soldier in the field to get yourself and others slain. I could slap a charge on you for disobeying orders."

"I have heard this threat before, sir, and with all due respect am still awaiting my discharge papers. And if I may, I do not think it was I who was distracted, sir." Her tone accused indirectly and when Rancir said nothing, she continued, "Are you saying then we should have no concern for any of the fellows who fight beside us? If we do not worry for their individual safety then what are we but orcs driven solely by blood thirst?"

"What I'm saying is what I'm saying. You follow the orders your commanding officer gives you not edit them to suit your whims, however high-minded. And don't spout insolent palaver at me trying to make me a villain. You know that's not what I meant."

Her voice maintained its softness but a faint treble belied anger and anguish behind it. "What would you have had me do then, sir? Let you kill yourself?"

"Yes."

"I cannot do that."

An aggravated exhale. "I have already told you my reasons on this matter. They have not changed since we last spoke of them and they will not change now."

"I have listened to your reasons," now the anger and frustration flared; Aragorn heard it clearly. "I am your subordinate, you're too old, not whole. Your body is crippled, Rancir. Your mind is not. You know how ridiculous you're being." The abrupt change from formal address to first-name startled the impromptu listener. He had never heard her talk to her commander like that.

"Dismissed."

"You hide behind rank only because you—"

"Dismissed, I said, maethor." The lieutenant-commander's clipped tautness made Aragorn finch visibly.

Ivriel stalked from the room without seeing him and headed at a fast walk towards the further end of the hall, murmuring something about joining the watch at the gate. Lalaithien hurried towards her but she waved him away. Exchanging a sympathetic frown with Halbarad, Aragorn slipped into the outer chamber.

Rancir had his back to the ranger, leaning over a cracked basin balanced precariously on the Rhudaur lord's slab. He didn't look around when Aragorn's hard soles announced his presence. The unguent of his disguise still patched his jaw, also mottled a gloriously plum-sable from the blow Ivriel had bestowed on him.

"Do you need anything for that?" Aragorn asked with a hesitant quirk of his brows.

The elf gave a jerk of his head to the negative and resumed scrubbing the ointment off his face, wincing as he brushed the sore spot.

To cover the not-entirely-comfortable silence, Aragorn unsheathed the saber and ran the rag over it, "It looks like we are safe for now. No injury is severe. Although two of ours are unaccounted for—Angrad and Veil."

"If our pursuers assail this place, we won't hold it. If your two are still alive they'll have to find us on their own."

"I don't think we should leave them behind." If Angrad was still alive…if the orcs got him too…

"Sometimes single sacrifices must be made for the sake of the group," Rancir stated implacably: a hollow axiom brushed over so many times with the same tired strokes, the truth and stubbornly-held rightness of it clung only by a thread. "If we all started worrying about individual soldiers, we forget what is best for the group, forget our purpose."

"Sometimes it is the bond between individuals that makes our purpose all the stronger."

The elf's black eyes surveyed the ranger knowingly over the cloak he was using to dab his face dry. "You too?"

Aragorn schooled his face into careful vacuity, not wanting the commander to know he'd overheard him arguing with his subordinate. "It's just what I believe, sir." He sighed. It would do no good to pretend he hadn't heard with Rancir looking at him like that.

"She seems to care very deeply for you."

Rancir gave him an ineffable look that left any chance of continuing this conversation dead as last autumn's leaves. Interests of self-preservation made him backtrack swiftly.

"It's not my place, I know."

The commander rubbed his bruised jaw, his gaze tracing the path Ivriel had taken out of the room, then passing the ranger's shoulder and focusing on something in the doorway at the end of the hall.

Aragorn turned to see what he was staring at. "Angrad."

The young ranger looked pale though oddly determined. His tunic was torn, his fingers grubby from scaling up the rocks. A dark stain tainted one sleeve. "Sir."

"Are you all right? Is Veil with you?"

"I'm fine."

"Estel? Rancir didn't kill you, did he?" Halbarad stopped short upon recognizing the young man in the doorway, mentally sweeping him for injuries. His shoulders visibly relaxed when he found nothing life-threatening and he smiled his relief. "Angrad. Thought we'd lost you there."

"You left me."

"I didn't mean to, lad," Guilt edged the older man's eyes. "It was dark. I thought you were right behind me."

But Aragorn had noticed something more important and much more troubling. "You're not stuttering anymore."

"No," Angrad turned amused eyes in his direction. "I have no more need for pretenses."

" 'Pretenses?' "

A strange, little smile hovered about the young ranger's lips and an unexplainable warning pricked the back of Aragorn's neck. "You know nothing do you? Not one thing."

"What's gotten into you, Angrad?" Halbarad demanded, taking a step closer, guilt transforming rapidly to outrage. "You don't talk to your chief like that."

"He is not my chief. He never has been," Angrad said, his eyes now narrowed with menace shockingly out of place on his familiar mien. "I am a son of Rhudaur. I do not answer to the whims of the Dúnedain."

"What?"

"Ever you told me to know my enemies, Master Halbarad. Then again, when would you ever deign to heed your own counsel?" The smile returned but it was knife-edged, laced with bitterness. His entire comportment had changed. No longer was he the mild-mannered, timid ranger. He lifted his arms to encompass the room, "I am just like the noble people buried here. You were so easy to deceive, so ready to believe I'd escaped the orcs when they pursued us to Rivendell though none of my more valiant companions had done so. My true lord knew me for who I was at once and I aided him as I could in return."

"But they hurt you," Halbarad blustered as if willing Angrad to agree what he said could never be possible. "I saw the wounds."

For the first time a shadow of horror crossed Angrad's face. "Yes. Sometimes…when I have failed, my lord has felt the need to punish me. But I did not fail him again. An elf rider had escaped Fornost; the news he carried could ruin everything. Except he never made it. His horse only escaped the trackers. Unfortunately it was enough that the steed was still wearing the message satchel. There was a chance the elves of Rivendell would find it and grow suspicious.

"It was still carrying the messages when we came on it. I made sure they fell into the hands of my friends even if I couldn't kill the horse without rousing suspicion. And it would have stayed that way—only your foolish Galadhrim captain had to get involved. He knew something was wrong though he didn't suspect me. I heard from the twin sons of Lord Elrond that he tortured at least part of the truth out of one of the trackers and was assembling a company. I had to warn my lord. He made them pay fitting reparations for their snooping."

Aragorn's mind had locked up, the words washing over him meaninglessly. He couldn't believe it. He thought he'd known Angrad: callow, somewhat timid, a little fearful and withdrawn but essentially good-natured and trustworthy. Who was this lean, angry, man standing before him with clenched fists and a kindled flame in his eyes, confessing that he had as good as murdered the contingent of Rivendell? Given Haldir to the orcs

"Only one knew my secret, the slave, Veil. He saw me the one time I made the journey to Fornost. I had to keep a very close watch on him. I think he did manage to warn others but who would believe the word of a formerly enslaved corpse-thief over a valiant soldier of the North?"

Aragorn closed his eyes, his grip tightening so hard on the unsheathed saber the sharpened edge bit into his palm. Veil had tried to warn him about a traitor in their midst! And he hadn't wanted to believe him.

"What did you do to him?" the chieftain whispered, dreading the answer he knew he would hear.

"When he tried to stop me warning my lord tonight, I had no choice. When you circled round to the camp, I killed him." Angrad seemed determined that they should know the fullness of their folly for he continued to gloat, his eyes sharpening with satisfaction. "I can't tell you how hard it's been. I have had to use every skill I learned from you to avoid detection. And tonight, I finally gave my lord what he desired most—you."

With an enraged bellow, Halbarad charged forward, forgetting that he had no weapon. "You're lying! I treated you like a son and you—"

Angrad's sword came up like a trap springing, warning the other man off, his smile a taut leer. "Give me a reason and I'll rip a death-hole in your belly."

Halbarad froze, disbelief and fury alternatively flickering over his face.

Attracted by the angry voices, the rest of the Dúnedain crowded in the side door, incredulous looks on their faces at the odd tableau spread in front of them: Angrad, triumphant with elation, holding steel on their chieftain and his subaltern.

"Why would you do this?" Aragorn could only ask. His mind had begun to start again and with it came a pressing fear and a realization of infringing danger.

Angrad curled his lip as though the question were quite ridiculous. "Haven't you been listening?My father was of Rhudaur. Surely you at least remember Saurdar, Master Halbarad? He brought me to your settlement when I was a child. You said he could stay until the roads thawed. He saw how hard you lived. Especially in winter. He wanted to repay you for your kindness," he slurred the word. "He knew there was a far better homeland and destiny for the King's men than a wreck of filthy hovels guarding a weakling race of ignorant half-men."

"He wanted to end our nomadic life and reestablish a kingdom just south of Angmar," Halbarad explained to Aragorn who had been a boy at the time and cared not for the rumors and whisperings that reached him. He had not yet known how closely his fate would tie with that of the Dúnedain.

"My father was a great speaker," Angrad said, pride gleaming in his eyes. "People were attracted to what he had to say."

"Those who remembered the horror and power of the Witch-king better had more sense. They warned him more than once to stay his glory-mongering, his talk of subjugating the north. Those were Angmar's ideas. Never the Dúnedain's."

"Wolves came down during that snowmelt," Angrad continued, drowning out Halbarad. "They were stealing sheep and killing men—evil creatures from the north, one of the elders said. You didn't care did you? That Saurdar went out to fight—on your behalf—and never returned. But it was not wolves who slew my father, no. He was struck with an arrow from one of his own comrades."

"It was an accident."

"It was murder. Oh, the noble Dúnedain. Couldn't even face a man to silence him. You had to hit him in the back," Angrad was breathing hard, bright spots of red coloring his cheeks but he slowly relaxed, regained calm. "But no matter. I found someone who was not only willing to help me avenge my father but would give me lands and a people of my own to fulfill his dream."

"Mordor and Angmar do not share power, Angrad, they take it," Aragorn said, very gravely. "You do not yet know what you do."

"I told you, Strider, those who would ally themselves with Angmar must have hated someone more. Even then you didn't see it. All those boastful stories you told me about the Dúnedain only fueled my ambitions. I was right, you see. I know better than my poor father—he thought the Dúnedain would listen to him. They're too proud to listen, too stubborn to heed others' words that might have helped them, might have saved them.

"Rhudaur will become strong again without the Dúnedain's help. Its houses rebuilt, its lords returned once the last of your people are gone into the barrows and the true King of the North returns!"

Halbarad moved protectively to Aragorn's side, growling like an angry wildcat. "We're still alive and fighting, pup. The battle's not over yet."

"That won't take long." Angrad laughed, a fanatic gleam blazing all over his transformed face. "Surely you do not think I would confess myself to you, outnumbered and outfought, and rely on your mercy to spare my life? I am not alone."

Like bands of frozen iron, dread closed around Aragorn's heart at the traitor's admittance. Now he knew why the hairs on his arms and neck pricked with cold and despair. Why Angrad had talked so long and so boldly. And why no scout had come to bring them word of his return. Behind him, he heard a sharp rasp as Rancir picked up his glaive. As if entangled in a surreal dream he faced the outer door and beheld the terrifying apparition framed there.

Beneath the arch like something out of a nightmare sat the Nazgûl himself mounted silently upon his black steed. He did not stir but let his presence roll over the company. The torches along the walls guttered. Looping something round and dark off his saddle horn, he flung it down the center aisle. Bile surged up Aragorn's throat as Eldacar's head tumbled to a stop two paces from him.

"Your scouts are slain and your burrow unearthed. It is over, Dúnedain." His voice slithered against their ears like liquid darkness.

On either side of him, shadows undulated. It wasn't until the torchlight caught a glint of steel that Aragorn realized they were orcs, filing close to the wall to avoid being spotted until now.

A chill light gleamed as the wraith pulled a dark lame from beneath his voluminous robes. Angrad bowed reverently low before him.

"I did as you asked, my lord," he whispered breathlessly. "Will you fulfill your promise? A land and servants to rebuild my country, my lost people?"

The wraith laughed softly. "One who betrays his friends should expect to be betrayed in return. You have been a valuable spy, true son of Rhudaur, but you are of no further use to me now that you are known."

Angrad blanched. Clearly he had not expected this. "But…my lord, you promised!"

His lord barely slowed his horse. The deadly sword swung once, catching him across the face, and Angrad slumped to the floor. "So I did. I name you lord of the maggots."

The deathless king spurred his mount on, his sword swinging like a scythe. "Slay them all!"

The saber rose slightly unwieldy in Aragorn's hands as orcs surged from the walls. "Na dagor!"

The Dúnedain hurtled forward, swords flashing and arrows already notched. So fierce was their first onslaught, they drove the foe clear back into the narrower antechamber.

The saber scythed a lethal path through the enemy as Aragorn grew accustomed to its weight and superb balance. It glowed with a vengeful blue light and the orcs gave back before him as his men pressed for the doorway. Their advantage did not last long. Critz bellowed something in a guttural tongue and the orcs screeching wildly, threw themselves at the rangers, forcing them back by sheer weight of numbers.

A black-fanged face swung a curved blade at his neck. Aragorn dropped it with a slash across the belly. Three more sprang up to take his place.

A heavy weight crashed into his hip and spun him off balance. He had a mere glimpse of dark fur and six-inch gleaming fangs inches from his face. The saber came up too slow and he readied to feel those fangs sinking any moment into his flesh. Critz's wolf yelped and whirled about with a snarl, blood matting its shoulder fur. Another blow from his rescuer sent the wolf scurrying off for easier prey.

Ivriel was bleeding from a scalp wound but she was alive bringing those of the scouts who had escaped the Witch-king's first wave. She pulled him to his feet and thrust his blade back into his hand. "Get your back against something!" she yelled and spun off. Aragorn saw the lieutenant-commander's eyes flash in their direction.

The tomb writhed and echoed with living bodies, the floor wet and slick with blood. The defenders stumbled over the bodies of their slain foes, a few of their own number had fallen to poisoned blades and rending teeth.

Aragorn brought the saberblade cleaving down on a skull. It grated against bone and he grunted as he dragged his weapon free. As he did so, his elbow jarred against something harder than stone and, turning, he realized the fight had backed them up against the bone-shelves where the dead of Rhudaur were interred.

There was a little more room to swing now since the fight had carried into the outer hall as well. The Dúnedain were hardy and valiant, but they were overmatched by a foe they had never before encountered. The sheer, terrified madness that infected everyone around the wraith king ensnared them too.

The wraith himself did not fight but lingered near the door, watching from atop his mount, for none dared attack him. He was calling out in a foreign, evil tongue, speaking words of summoning and horror that Aragorn didn't want to understand. Heaving shadows whirled and clashed along the wall as if in answer, the guttering light throwing smoky shrouds over skulls and rusted swords. Torches flickered and extinguished, filling the hall to choking with smoke and ash.

An unearthly wind ruffled Aragorn's hair and behind him he heard the bones stir. Without warning, a shroud wrapped tight around his neck. His hands flew to his blocked airway as he thrashed wildly from side to side, trying to loosen the throttling sheet but unseen hands pried his fingers away, numbing them with a shocking cold. His vision started to waver as the shroud pulled tighter, strangling him. He couldn't think. He needed air.

Without knowing why he did it, words sprang to his lips and he gasped. "O Elbereth! Elbereth Gilthoniel!" The hands slackened and his voice burst out strong. "Silivren penna míriel! O menel aglar elenath!"

The ragged veil suddenly tore with a screech and the cold hands vanished. Coughing and sucking in blessed air, Aragorn staggered upright rubbing his neck. Rancir's voice boomed like a jaguar's hoarse cough over the fray, repeating his chant which was quickly taken up by the rest of the Dúnedain. "O Elbereth! Elbereth Gilthoniel! Silivren penna míriel! O menel aglar elenath!"

The effect the blessed tongue of Valinor had on the waves of darkness was instantaneous and alarming. An ear-splitting shriek of many, inhuman voices filled the entire hall so loud it caused a momentary lull in the fighting. Even the orcs were looking baffled and unnerved. Bones exploded out of the niches as if hurled scattering under the heels of defenders and attackers alike. Dust and shrouds billowed as the cavities cracked down their middles, raining rocks and debris everywhere.

Another shriek rent the air, full of hate and fury, scorching the ears and hearts of the Dúnedain. The Witch-king's hooded gaze whipped towards the human leader. The beautiful Sindarin tongue blistered like acid against he who had heard it years ago from the lips of an elf-lord, a brilliant, excruciating flame against the pervasive dark. The one who had shamed him and driven him from the field at the head of his decimated host. How dare this mere mortal attempt to break his power!

He gestured to the one he had kept back from the fight until now and indicated the dark-haired ranger. "Silence him!"

Aragorn fought his way from the niches but a monster wielding a falchion almost as tall as he bore down on him. His charge forced the man back dodging a heavy swipe that would have cleaved him in half. Twice more he evaded even parrying the blade, allowing the heavier being to expel strength.

Frustrated by the agility of his quarry, the orc bellowed, cast aside his weapon and flung himself full on the man. His weight bulled Aragorn over backwards against something hard and smooth. The casket of the Rhudaur king. Clawed hands found his already abused neck and squeezed. Aragorn didn't give him a chance to snap it. The saber hilt smashed into the heavy jowl with the force of an iron bar. His enemy screeched, spraying blood from a broken mouth.

Struck by a sudden idea, Aragorn sprang up onto the stone tomb, calling hoarsely over the clash of steel, gathering his men to him even as he lashed out at every spear and blade that came near to snatch him from his perch.

The orcs gave back suddenly, clearing a space about the tomb. But Aragorn kept his bloodied sword in a defensive position, not yet ready to believe they had given up so easily. They hadn't. The battle around him fell away and instead of the cries and screams of fighting and dying, he heard only silence as he saw the figure approaching.

Haldir strode towards him, a long, blackened sword raised as the orcs parted to let him through. Aragorn froze with uncertainty. The Witch-king and all his servants he would slay without reservation or quarter until his last breath. But regardless of what had been done to him, this was his friend, his brother-in-arms. He couldn't hurt him.

Consumed by the Nazgûl's poison, Haldir had no such choice. He leapt catlike onto the tomb beside the ranger, his blade already whistling through the air.

The man parried the arcing strike just in time though jolts of pain ran all the way down his elbows and up his shoulders. He was close enough to see the elf's blank eyes rake up the length of the saber. Aragorn wondered if his friend recognized his blade.

There was scarcely room for both of them to maneuver and their long swords clashed repeatedly on the thick, unsharpened ricassos near the hilts, razor sharp tips almost gouging their faces. The blades locked as the combatants swayed, each trying to unbalance the other, boots finding tentative purchase on the damp stone. Through crossed steel, Aragorn was suddenly acutely aware of how much taller than he the elf was. The noble strength and unnatural agility that had once saved his life now turned against him.

The Witch-king watched the private battle with interest. The human fought with an elven blade that blazed like a red brand in his sight though the hand that wielded it was only a shadow. The human held his own well against the elf whose bright form was shot through with veins of strengthening darkness.

Though none of his strokes aimed to kill the man parried anything thrown at him. With the travesty of a disguise washed away, the wraith could sense him clearly now. There was something…strange about him. Something that hinted of Elves or long-lost Númenor. The blood was stronger beating in him than any of the others here.

Disentangling their weapons with a twist, Haldir stepped in too close for the ranger to wield his weapon and lashed out with an open hand, hitting his opponent so hard white sparks exploded behind the man's eyes. Aragorn stumbled and nearly fell as his heel caught the edge of the casket, threatening to send him tumbling off. The place where the elf had hit him throbbed like a bruise and he tasted blood. Haldir had never hit him that hard even in sparring.

Aragorn straightened slowly. He swallowed with difficulty; his throat suddenly obstructed. "You have to fight this. I know you are there, Haldir. You are not this darkness. You are not a servant of Mordor. You are my friend. You have to fight it—whatever it's doing to you. You wouldn't do this."

For the briefest of seconds, the elf paused as if listening to the man's words and the ranger acted.

He swung the flat of the saber with considerable force. The heavy, blunt edge connected solidly with the elf's ribs. When his knees buckled, the ranger's fist cracked against the side of his head. Both blows seared a blazing pain over his heart.

Half-stunned and hanging partially off the casket, Haldir shook strands of loose hair out of his face. His clouded eyes flamed like an open furnace and pierced Aragorn to the quick. The marchwarden vaulted to his feet, fast as a lynx, and the black sword he wielded gouged a screeching, deep furrow in the king's stone tomb as Aragorn rolled off, the blade missing him by a hairsbreadth.

His onetime friend followed him to the ground and slashed savagely at him. Retreating fast, Aragorn tripped over a lifeless orc and went sprawling. He stilled his inching back as the black sword pricked against his windpipe. He was dead. He knew it. He couldn't see any trace of his friend in those pitiless eyes. He closed his own. He didn't want his last sight to be of his friend murdering him.

The sharp edge withdrew. Wonderingly, Aragorn dared open his eyes a slit as a dark shape leaped over his inert form and backhanded the elf backwards over the sepulcher.

"No! Halbarad!" Aragorn scrambled up as the older ranger lunged. "He's not himself!"

"Get out of here, Estel!"

On the other side of the vault, the elf captain rose to his feet. He didn't bother to wipe the trickle of blood snaking down his chin but his pale, unresponsive eyes fixated on Halbarad as he plucked up the black sword.

Lalaithien, a bloody score across his cheek, suddenly thrust through the melee and grabbed the Dúnedain chief's arm. "Come on! Rancir's called us back! They are too strong!"

The Dúnedain were fighting their way towards a side door. Orcs fell and gave back around them, beaten back by the hardy blades of Westernesse. The Witch-king was blocked in by his own minions as they scuttled away from their enemies' desperate assault.

Aragorn had lost sight of Haldir in the fray. Numb as a sleepwalker, he let Lalaithien and Halbarad maneuver him through the path they'd made. Hands and sleeves splashed with gore, Rancir and Ivriel held the downward stairs against all comers.

"Follow him. Go," the dark-haired elf shouldered Aragorn aside, his glaive impaling a massive goblin. With a brutal kick, he knocked the corpse off the end of his weapon, a feral laugh on his lips.

Aragorn knew better than to argue. A sense of clarity returned as Halbarad and his remaining men looked to him for guidance. "You heard him. Go. Help the wounded." Sheathing his bloody blade, he fell back to the rear.

He remembered little of the flight through the dark, the cries and curses of their enemies fading but never quite vanishing behind them. For what felt like an eternity, they groped blindly down flights of stairs, able only to see a dim gleam ahead of them as Lalaithien's bright shape led the way ever down and deeper. At last they came to a large crack in the wall at the back of a cavern. Fresh air blew through the crevice wide enough to admit a man.

"This'll take us out onto the slopes," Lalaithien explained. "But Rancir and Ivriel can't hold them forever so all the wounded go first, quickly now. I'll guide you."

"Do as he says," Aragorn relinquished the man he was supporting to Halbarad and pushed his friend ahead of him while he and Galen gazed anxiously across the cavern. The silence was unendurable as the minutes crawled past. Most of the men had gone through and Lalaithien and Halbarad had returned.

"Rancir and Ivriel—?" the younger elf broke off when he saw they were alone.

"We can't wait much longer," Galen said, his face grave as the sound of running feet and yells drew nearer. "You're next, Estel."

Aragorn shook his head. He had heard something and gestured his friend to silence as he squinted into the pitch-dark. Someone was coming up fast. The footsteps were soft and uneven as if whoever it was had trouble walking. Nervously, he grasped the saber in his sweat-slick hand.

"Who comes?" Lalaithien's whisper startled him.

"The bloody cavalry. Move." Rancir's light was dim in the vast cavern. Blood spattered his tunic and splashed up along his neck; an ashen Ivriel clung to his shoulder. Her hair was matted thick with a scarlet crust. He thrust her half-conscious into Lalaithien's arms. "Take her. They're right behind us. Go." He hefted his bloodstained blade exhaustedly as wild, yammering cries burst from the other end of the hall. The frontrunners were right on their heels.

The saber took an orc's head from its shoulders as Aragorn swung it, feeling as if his limbs were filled with lead. His head spun with exhaustion and a chill had crept over his skin like icewater. He knew. The Nazgûl was coming.

"Come on, you three," Rancir called as he ducked into the crack behind Lalaithien and Ivriel.

With a vicious thrust, Halbarad's longsword took an orc through the thigh, dropping him. "You first, chief."

Galen's rapier sang through the air close by, cutting a swathe of death through the oncoming horde. Black blood spattered the rocks but the numbers against them were steadily pressing them backwards. They'd have to break the fight now or be overwhelmed.

Aragorn saw the pale, familiar face among all the twisted ones and his heart contracted painfully. This time, he was the one leaving his friend behind. He wasn't the one paying attention to the orc rushing up on his right, a spear centered on his chest.

"Estel!"

A lithe body bowled him over and sent him tumbling against the wall. Shoulders and skull aching where they'd hit, he heaved himself up as the orc bearing a broken spear fell sideways, its yellow eyes already darkening. The warrior who had deflected the spear-thrust slumped against the wall beside him. At first, Aragorn thought he had collapsed from sheer fatigue but then he saw the splintered wooden spar protruding from the elf's side.

"Galen." Aragorn crouched beside the wounded warrior with Halbarad lunging to cover them both. He tried to examine the wound but rapidly pooling blood obstructed his view. Galen's crimsoned fingers covered his and pushed back gently.

"It's bad, Estel…passed right-right through," he coughed and warm spatters flecked Aragorn's cheeks. The man winced.

"Oh, Galen."

The elf shook his head weakly at the horror and grief in the man's voice. "Do not mourn, Estel. I've lived longer I'd-I'd hoped…than I deserved."

"Don't say that. If you hadn't brought word to us, we would never have known what happened and I would be dead by now. Just stay still; I'll find my pack…there's medicines and bandages there… You're not going to let a little stick like this stop you." Even as he spoke, Aragorn realized he'd left his pack behind in the upper room.

Galen smiled. Already the misty light of Mandos' Halls sparkled in his eyes. "Help me up will you?"

Aragorn's hands shook so hard he could barely grasp his friend's enough to pull him to his feet.

The scout of Imladris wavered, pain spasming across his beautiful face. Briefly, he closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the rapier hilt. "Let me have my honor-death, Estel. As I should have had with my captain and the others."

Aragorn wordlessly squeezed his hand as Halbarad cut a lightning fast look over his shoulder at the pair of them.

"We've got to get out of here!" The older ranger stooped, retrieved his leader's forgotten saber and thrust it into his hands. "We can't hold this forever."

"I will hold it," Galen staunchly shoved away from the wall. Driven by some inexplicable energy, the rapier flashed out and pierced the tall orc Halbarad had been battling. The grizzled ranger fell gratefully back, tugging on Aragorn's belt to make him move. Only numbly did the ranger turn.

"No quarter, Galen!" Halbarad called out, his roaring voice echoing off the cavern walls.

"For Rivendell!" Aragorn's cry boomed after; the Witch-king's screech of fury resounding in their ears and lending wings to their feet.

Grey-faced, Galen listened as their pounding footsteps and shouts of encouragement receded down the tunnel, one hand pressed against his middle. His rapier glittered like a messenger of death, slaying all with ferocious skill as he defended the narrow way. "I bet you've never felt the fighting spirit of Lieutenant Gelmir's eldest son! Come!"

With a grunt, the gallant soldier pulled the spear haft from his side and hurled himself full upon his enemies like a tidal wave, a last war cry and blessing ripping out of his throat to send his friends on their way.

"Elbereth!"

A fragrant breeze cooled their sweat-soaked locks as Aragorn and Halbarad stumbled onto the grass-covered slopes of the west side of Amon-en-Achas. The hill was startlingly quiet and still after the cacophony of battle. The others were gathered lower down.

"Where is Galen?" Lalaithien asked, closing the last few yards between them. He and the Imladris scout had gotten to know each other well in the few weeks they'd been pinned up in the caverns.

Aragorn shook his head, his eye caught by Ivriel who despite her wounds had lit a small brush fire and was dipping a rag-wrapped arrowhead into it. "What is she doing?"

The well-aimed arrow flew over their heads, an arc of brilliant light, and bedded in the grass close to the tunnel exit. Within seconds the parched weeds went up in a sheet of flame as though they'd been doused with oil.

"That'll stop any others from coming after us at least for awhile," she explained, shouldering her bow.

Lalaithien grasped her arm protectively as she swayed, his face stony. "Come on. We need to be gone from here before daylight."

For a moment, Aragorn lingered and watched the thick, grey smoke spiral skyward against a backdrop of clear night netted with pinpricks of stars. The fire blazed painfully in his overbright eyes and he had to look away, bowed with weariness and heartache for all that had been lost this night.


Notes:

Maethor"warrior." Rancir hides his feelings behind formality.

Na dagor!— "To battle!"

O Elbereth! Elbereth Gilthoniel/ Silivren penna míriel. / O menel aglar elenath— Doubtless you already recognize this as a fragment of the hymn to Varda sung in the halls of Elrond. I make no pretense, it's straight from Tolkien. Translated by Ruth S. Noel: "O Star-Queen, Star-kindler (white) glittering slants down sparkling like jewels from firmament glory (of the) star-host!"